Heir and Guv'nor
by Snowfilly
Summary: Vanion remembers Sparhawk as he knew him as he watches his understudy ride away into exile. Rewritten
1. Vanion

Heir and Guv'nor

Disclaimer - All these characters are the property of David Eddings.

A/N - I've rewritten this. I'm sorry for the crappiness of the last one, so I hope this is a bit better. Thanks Mel, at least you was honest enough to tell me how bad some of this was. BTW, some non-perfect grammar is Vanion's thoughts and I am aware of it.

Vanion stood at the window of his room in the Chapterhouse, a grimace disfiguring his handsome face. Far, far on the horizon a moving figure, dark against the early morning sky was riding with bowed head to his almost certain death and Vanion felt that his heart was going with him.

He drew one hand over his scarred face, the face that Sparhawk had been so fond of. The figure halted, rising one hand in either farewell or salute to his destiny. Unable to help himself, Vanion echoed the gesture, knowing that Sparhawk could not see him, feeling as though his heart would break. _How many times have I watched him ride out, sword by his side, a grin on his face and then, come sundown, return at a gallop looking for his dinner? But not tonight. Not ever again. _

Sparhawk moved off again, the young horse that Vanion had given to him once he heard of his exile trotting loose beside his bay mare. _At least, if he lives long enough, he will have a good horse to ride when that old mare's legs give out on him. A better chance of coming home again and a way of remembering me even if our paths never cross again. _

He swung round hurriedly at the sound of Sepherinia's quick footsteps, but the small women only rested her hand on his forearm, blue eyes meeting his grey ones sympathetically. 'I'm going to miss him as well, Vanion.' As often at the sound of her words, his brain become a welter of mixed emotions. _No chance, Vanion. She is Styric, you are an Elene pig-eater. Less chance than you ever had with anyone in your life. Go and find some Elene girl._

Defiantly, he raised his head. 'I miss Sparhawk no more than I miss Kalten or Martel or any of the others. Why should I miss him more?' His voice, a distinctive soft burr that could wake grown soldiers from the dead when he yelled at them was louder than normal. 

'Because, Preceptor Vanion, he was the one you have been training to take your place. It was not so very hard to see, and you always seem to think that you will die soon.' As quickly as she had come, she left the room. Vanion sighed, running his hands through his hair, noticing the grey strands that Sparhawk had teased him about a few nights ago when they had sat together, talking long into the night about the possibility of killing Martel before he caused any more damage. 

Sparhawk._ How you managed all this, I do not know. Thy say you always recognise the one who will take your place - your heir - but how old was you when I realised what you would do? Twenty? So young. And how quickly you learnt what had taken me ages, the skills to be leader. . _

Vanion smiled vaguely as he remembered training Sparhawk. _Of all the men who I ever trained in the use of the sword, only you and Martel knew them even as I described them. Only you who became one with his sword and his opponent, almost dancing in celebration of your mad, magnificent youth as you fought. Only you who could hold conversations with Sepherinia in her own language. Only you who fell time and time again as you learnt to fight mounted and yet learnt to understand the horse as you understood the importance of killing your enemy. _

Vanion walked slowly across the corridor, with the peculiar gait of a man who had spent much of his life on horseback to what had been Sparhawk's room. His presence was strong here, the sound of his voice still seeming to linger as he whispered to Vanion, the sound of his heavy footfalls, the rank smell of his armour.

'Kurik! What are you doing?'

The squire was retrieving Sparhawk's rusty armour from where it had been left. 'Collecting Sparhawk's armour, my Lord. I'll take care of it.'

Wearily, Vanion shook his head. 'No, Kurik. Leave it. I'll see to it later tonight. And leave his room like it is as well if you don't mind. He'll be back soon, you know.'_ Vanion, you know better than that. He won't be back. Not ever._

'My Lord?'

Suddenly, he realised that he had slumped onto Sparhawk's bed, his expression distraught. With an effort he looked at Kurik. 'He was a friend. The best pupil I ever taught, the one who would replace me when I am gone. And I was obliged to agree to his exile fore his own safety. I would have followed him into hell itself but he rarely asked for anything, let alone that.'

Kurik nodded, clapping him on the shoulder before leaving. For a long, long moment, Vanion sought to keep his composure before he started to weep. He wept for what he had lost - a man who had been his pupil, his most trusted understudy, his comrade and someone who would eventually take his place. He wept for Sparhawk, leaving to a place he did not know, for a reason he did not understand and believing that Vanion had let him down. He had nearly wept himself to sleep when Sephrina walked over to him.

'He will be back one day, Vanion. You have not lost Anakha forever, although one day you may wish you had. You were his friend, but your life and his are different; your destiny is not together. He will always be your heir, and your memories will always be there but he will not be the same man when he returns and you will not have the time in future for old friends.' _You mule-headed pig-eater. _

Vanion glared, aware in his heart that what she had said was true but denying it anyway. He allowed himself to fall into sleep; a trick Sparhawk had shown him. Then Sparhawk was with him again, riding into fights with him, talking with him, arguing with him. And on the wings of the breeze, Sparhawk's voice came to him 'Guv'nor...Vanion...I'm sorry. I hope you've got a reason for this...but whatever I did...I'm sorry, Vanion. And no, I was never afraid of you...I trust you...'

Sepherinia covered Vanion with a blanket, her actions strangely gently and touched one hand to his cheek. 'Sleep well, dear one.' _One day, Vanion. One day._

A/N - Guv'nor isn't a very David Eddings like word, but it is the only word I could find to describe Sparhawk's feelings towards Vanion as a teacher and leader. If there is a better word, please let me know. I'm planning a second chapter to this, from Sparhawk's POV.


	2. Sparhawk

Sparhawk swore as his chestnut mare crested the last hill from which he could see the Chapterhouse and turned to wave farewell, to the shadowy figure that was Vanion standing by his window, with head bowed. Almost, almost, he'd got used to the idea but that image brought tears stinging to his eyes. 

Gruffly, he yelled at the roan colt gambolling ahead of him, kicking up clouds of dust that choked him and his mare. 'Oi, colt, behave yourself.' For a minute, his thoughts raced as he went through a selection of names that would suit the roan, but he suddenly remembered Vanion's teachings on profanity._ If he heard what I really thought of his gift, I don't suppose that I would live to appreciate it._ He thought a moment longer, then called gently, in a tone that sounded strange in his harsh accent. 'Faran.' The only Styric word that even Kalten had been able to remember, it's meaning 'Hope.'

Hope. _Hope that me and Kalten will see each other again soon. Hope that Kurik and Aslade will be all right together now. Hope that Vanion stays well and keeps as Preceptor. _Sparhawk winced at that thought - he'd seen the last Preceptor 'retired' when he himself was sixteen and Vanion, then aged twenty six, had overthrown him on the practice field and in the discussions, smiling all the while but with triumph glinting in his blue eyes. It wasn't an experience that he'd care to repeat, especially if it meant seeing Vanion injured. 

'Oh, stop it, Faran' he snapped. The blue roan laid his heavy ears back, the white ring round his eyes showing plainly as he snapped at empty air. Sparhawk waved one hand at him, slapping the warm muzzle and looking startled, the colt stopped his prancing. Suddenly, the hooves of his mare slid; looking up the young knight saw the sun sailing down behind the hills and the stones on the rough track skidding and bouncing away into the falling night. He cursed bitterly. 

He made camp as best as he was able; Kurik was the one who had always made the camp, or Vanion. _Vanion. I hated you so often, loathed the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand on my shoulder. And yet eventually, how I came to look for them, always in battle or meetings to look first for you, my teacher, my friend. My guv'nor._

I don't understand this exile, Vanion. Is it simply because of danger? Have I displeased you and the Pandions or the Crown in some way? If so, how I wish that you had told me and I could have tried to make amends. Is it simply because I am not good enough, consistently second to Martel and did you ever really believe my account of that night? Oh, Vanion, with all my heart I hope that you've got a reason for all this, but God help me, if you haven't then I'll forgive you because I still trust you.

Screwing his eyes shut, Sparhawk whispered a thank-you to the other man. And miles away, Vanion felt the unspoken plea of the man that he was thinking about. Locked in mutual hopes and fears, Vanion and Sparhawk, the guv'nor of the Pandions and his heir thought of each other. Faran's clarion call rung out into the darkness, echoing of the hills until both men heard it - a rampant, wild challenge to adversity that was the whole of their lives. 

__


End file.
